


Proper Course of Action

by YoureWelcomeBabey



Series: Reader/William Boldwood [1]
Category: Far from the Madding Crowd (2015)
Genre: (but not anyone we care bout), ALL THE GOOD STUFF, AS IN READER WAS MARRIED TO THEIR COUSIN, Alternate Universe, BUT IT'S VICTORIAN TIMES SO EH-O, Bathing/Washing, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Kissing, Love Confessions, Multi, NB reader - Freeform, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Other, Reader/Canon Character, Romance, Self-Indulgent, Sharing a Bed, Tags:, Vaginal Fingering, and him and reader have a Thing going on, but William Boldwood is here, but gendered language bc Victorian times, linear narrative structure is for scrubs, so dunno where everybody else from the original source material have wandered off to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-31 23:56:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20248750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YoureWelcomeBabey/pseuds/YoureWelcomeBabey
Summary: Your marriage to your cousin was a farce, a loveless spectacle none of you were too happy about.But when your husband decided to leave the countryside and take you with him, the locals all agreed that something had to be done. None more so than Lord Boldwood, of whom you have been exceedingly fond of for a while now.





	Proper Course of Action

**Author's Note:**

> I NOW DECLARE THIS BAZAAR OPEN 
> 
> first story on this joint account of ours, written by Mod A, edited by Mod C, hopefully enjoyed by you 
> 
> we are planning to add more stories to this pile, but for now, the bare bones are as follows:
> 
> You, reader, has quit the town for a teaching position in the English countryside, and you have been making a good name for yourself, while also both enjoying and returning some attentions from local landed gentry, Lord William Boldwood

You’re shaking when he comes to you.  
Villagers stand around watching him as he drops the smoking gun and gently guides you to your feet. A wind blows and it’s hard to tell if your shiver is from the cold or the shock - either way he wraps his jacket around you. You pull it tight around your shoulders. The blood from your hands leave deep red marks on the lapels.

Everyone knew what had happened. Your cousin had coerced you into marriage. You had no choice. Your heart lay with someone else.

But they’d also seen the way he treated you. The bruises you couldn’t hide. And after all the town was small, and everyone liked you... and a hunting accident could be easily faked.  
You turn from the corpse of your husband into Boldwood’s arms. He plants a hand on your back and slowly leads you away, trying to make sure you don’t turn back.

“Come now,” he says softly, “let’s get you home.”

“I can’t...” your voice is hoarse, cracking, “I can’t go back to that place. William. Please.”

You never use his first name, except when you need him to listen. It hurts his heart. But he understands - your house is where he moved in when he married you. To return there would only cause you to hurt.

Perhaps it’s not proper but he doesn’t care. He wants you to feel protected. He wants you to be safe.

“Alright,” he relents. His home is closer anyway. He takes you far from the crowd, nodding at a town guard as he goes - one of the dozens in on the plan. He tips his cap at the two of you and you’re not bothered for the rest of the evening.

His staff meet you when you get back. If they think it’s odd he’s brought a married - well, widowed - woman back with him at this hour, they say nothing. He has a bath run for you, and tea is fetched.

You’ve stopped shaking but instead stare blankly into the distance. He didn’t notice it in the moonlight but there’s blood on your face. Your drink the tea - it’s far too hot but you don’t wince at it, draining the cup and setting it down carefully in its saucer.

“Let’s get you into a bath. It will do you a world of good,” he tells you, offering a hand and gently bringing you to stand. You allow him to lead you through the house and to his bathroom, your hand tightening around his own.

The bath is making the room warm, and the steam hangs heavily in the air, gently obscuring everything. You step towards the tub and reach behind you, gently pulling out the knots that hold your dress together.

He turns to leave.

“Wait.”

Your voice cuts through like a knife and he hesitates. He’s not sure what’s happening but he feels like he has an idea.  
“Don’t leave me. Please.”

“I...” the words die in his throat. He can’t stay and watch you bathe. It’s not proper. But he just killed your husband, does he care anymore about what's proper? You want him to stay and he wants to oblige you.

There’s a stool in the corner of the room. He brings it across and sits it opposite the bath, before sitting on it - facing away. You don’t comment but he hears the sound of the heavy fabric of your dress hit the floor, and a soft splash as you get into the water.

He listens to the sounds of you washing. He can feel his face is bright red. You’re behind him, as naked as the day you were born. He wants to look. He wants to see you in all your glory. He wants to know how your curves sit on your body, if your legs are as beautiful as they are in the dream he finds himself waking up from more and more often. But he forces himself to keep his eyes front and centre and lets you bathe in peace.

He doesn’t know how long passes but eventually he hears the sound of you rising back out.

“Will you pass me the towel?” you ask softly, and he does so dutifully, shielding his eyes when he turns. A nightdress has also been sourced for you - it’s nothing fancy, probably from one of the serving women, but it’s better than the bloody dress you’d been wearing before.

“William,” you say quietly, begging him to turn. When he does his breath catches in his throat.

The nightgown is... sheer. It hangs lightly off of your frame. In the low candlelight he swears he can see the soft colour of your nipples, and he forces himself not to look at them. He wants to touch you through it, under it. He wants to touch.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, trying to hide the lowness in his voice. His arousal is becoming obvious and he doesn’t want you to see.

“Thank you,” you whisper. There are tears welling in your eyes for the first time since you saw that terrible man die. Boldwood feels his heart shatter at your sadness.

“Oh, my dear...” he says, and lets you step into his arms. He tries to ignore the feeling of your breasts pressed up against his chest.

“I’m not crying for him. He’s gone. I should be mourning, shouldn’t I? But I only feel relieved.”

“He was an awful man. Evil. And you’re safe now,” he runs a hand up and down your arm and feels it turn to gooseflesh.

“You’ve done me a kindness I can never repay,” you say, drawing your head back and looking into his eyes. “Why?”

“You know why,” he says. 

Because I love you. I love you I love you I love you. 

And then you stand up on the tips of your toes, and kiss him.

It’s not on the cheek, but not quite on the mouth either - and it’s only a fleeting thing but it’s quite enough for him to know what you mean. His eyebrows spring upwards and he searches your face for what he should do next. Instead you gently rest a hand on his chest and turn it into a pat before saying “I suppose I should get to bed.”

He makes a little noise and you walk out the room, your bare feet padding softly on the wooden floor.

He retires himself, desperate to get the thought of you out of his head. He shirks his clothes and changes into his own nightgown, climbing into bed only to lay there and think. Sleep won’t come easily. Not when he knows you’re just down the corridor, alone, vulnerable. Needing comfort. Needing him.

He doesn’t know what will happen now. You are meant to mourn for a husband when he dies. That’s the usual way. But nothing about this is usual. He killed your husband to save you. The whole village was in on it. Because they loved you. Not in the same way he did, but it was love nonetheless.

Perhaps it was time for him to live up to his name at last, and be bold.

He sits up in bed, set on the idea of going to your room, when there’s a knock at his door.

“Hullo?” he asks, and slowly it creaks open. 

It’s you.

You close the door behind you and lean against it. The two of you watch each other for a long moment.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you confess, quietly. 

“Me neither.”

“I’ve been so used to having someone beside me when I drift off... even if it was someone I hated. It feels so odd to be on my own.”

God be damned, he thinks, and pulls back the cover on his bed.

“Come here.”

You don’t need telling twice. He shuffles over to make room for you and you climb in, lying on the very edge of the mattress. He lies back and the two of you face each other leaving as much room as possible between your bodies, as if that will make this dalliance proper. 

He looks into your eyes the best that he can in the moonlit room.

“I didn’t want to marry him,” you say, at length. “I’m so sorry.”

“You did what you thought was your only choice at the time. I just wish you had come to me.”

“I couldn’t have gotten you involved in it all. It wouldn’t have been fair to you,” you say, a desperation in your voice for him to understand. And he does. 

Quite without thinking he reaches up and traces his fingers down the frame of your face. You breathe a heavy sound, a sigh of contentment,

“William. Touch me.”

And he’s powerless to say no.

He reaches over and kisses you. You moan against him as his lips move against yours, dry and unsure. But he presses into you and you open up to him. His tongue touches yours and you tangle your hand in his hair, dragging him to you, desperate to feel the weight of him, to be anchored into this moment with someone you trust.

His hand skims down your side and you make a little noise of surprise which he can only let out a low chuckle at. The feel of you is positively sinful, but for the first time he doesn’t seem to mind sinning, if it means he gets to revel in your body for longer. You tug him against you and god, your hips rock into him, feeling the arousal under his nightshirt.

“I won’t make love to you until you’re my wife,” he whispers, pulling back from the kiss. 

“And will I be your wife?” you ask, voice so quiet it’s like you’re afraid of the answer.

“Yes,” he breathes against the shell of your ear. “You will.” He presses another kiss onto your jaw and you keen into his touch.

“Then don’t make love to me. But touch me, William. I need you to touch me.”

God, he can’t deny you. He lets his hand sweep down, feeling the soft fabric of the nightdress and hitching it up so he can touch your leg, all smooth skin and soft hair. Your breath catches in your chest and he kisses your sternum.

“Do you want me to st-”

“No,” you almost hiss and he laughs again. His hand keeps going up and up, along your tender thigh, until he feels the curls at the apex of your legs. Your breathing stills completely as he places his hand over you there, and then you push down against him.

He captures your mouth in a kiss as he pushes a finger between your lower lips. Your cunt is wet and begging for him, and he strokes a line all the way down it. The noise you make, god, he could listen to it over and over again.

He rubs your sensitive nub with his thumb and you breathe heavily, resting your forehead against his. The calloused roughness of his touch feels incredible. He wants to bring you nothing but pleasure, and you have no problem letting him.

You feel his breath on your face as he breaches you with a finger, feeling you in that most intimate way. You gasp and your eyelids flutter against his cheeks in a gentle tickle. Every nerve of his is on fire with you, you, you. 

He pushes in further against you until he’s up to a knuckle and drenched. He drags out slowly before adding another finger. Your hands suddenly reach up and grab his forearm, not to stop him but to grind yourself against him.

“Keep going, oh god,” you breathe, and he kisses you again, but gently - oh so gently. He doesn’t move his lips from yours, savouring the feeling of your shallow breaths, proof that you’re enjoying his touch. He moved his thumb faster, sweeping over your nub, toying with it and building your euphoria. You make little strangled noises but he knows they’re good ones, noises that mean please, I’m close.

He moves so he’s over you more now, bearing down on you into the bed, gritting his teeth as he pushes his hand back and forth, fucking you with it. You begin to cry out louder, eyes screwed shut as you relish every wave of it.

“Quiet,” he whispers into your ear, allowing his own hips to move and press into your hip with a gasp, “quiet my darling, or they’ll hear us.”

A couple more strokes is all you need and you come. It is not like a dam that’s been building up and up and bursts, but more akin to a waterfall that washes all over you and takes up your every sense. 

Your walls flutter around his fingers and his hand grows wet, and it’s enough to push him over the edge too, pushing thick ropes into the front of his nightgown.

The two of you lie back breathing heavily. You push your face into his neck and kiss his beard, and he laughs because he loves you.

“Was that a marriage proposal?” you ask, your voice finally plateauing out to normalcy.

“If you would say yes,” he replies, holding you tight against him.

“Yes, William. The answer was always yes.”


End file.
